An Intense Struggle Every January

I went to bed feeling quite accomplished last night. I woke up and felt immediately like the biggest yutz on the planet. This time of year is so weird for me. I find more problems with scattered thoughts and emotions….its a litter of a traumatized history. Constantly thinking back to what I might have  been doing this day 14 years ago. How I was about to get back my life. How the things that happened to us play out over the years. It’s P.T.S.D. cropping up like mad. It’s in the way a baby at church looks at me with her sweet blue eyes, or a photo that pops up on my timeline, subconsciously reminding me of what this week 14 years ago brought about. It is what the locusts have stolen from me. It invades my dreams and leaves me awake at 3 am praying my way to my morning alarm….my intent is to be focused and productive. I find myself incapable. Its an intense struggle.

noah 047.jpg

Evidence number 02-00414. The last moments where he smiled, slept, and God only knows what else. My heart bleeds into tears during church…I just can not help it. I don’t even know where it comes from. I try hard to be steady and hide my roller coaster. It always comes out in short comings and tears. Someday, it would just be nice if someone would join me in my tears and not kill me for my shortcomings. Not likes it magically becomes fixed the 14th. Its this weird process of transition from trauma to normal. It takes a lot to go from 1 to 2. Normal isn’t even normal even now. I have a kid with cancer. As much as I trust God, I still flash back to my first sons funeral. noah 040Touching cold plastic pipes surrounded with plastic bags, to keep the fluid in his corpse… kinda struck me as surreal. My tear dripped onto Noah’s face, and his makeup dripped from his cheek. I do not think anything can replace that private “viewing” when all I wanted to do was scoop him up into my arms and give him one last kiss………But instead, i watched what I thought was his face drip into a facade of fakeness………I gently stepped away from him understanding he was just a shell of what i wanted to remember.

At the end of the funeral, i threw every last memento out of my son’s casket. Where were these people when I needed help caring for him? NOWHERE. And yet, they showed up in droves for his funeral.

I will never forget sitting there, barely able to catch breath. Blowing through box after box of Kleenex not able to contain my sobs. I was loud and unsettling, i’m sure. My grief so deep. It penetrated every bone in my body. I was so grieved by my son’s death that it changed my being. It changed my very constitution. I will never forget that unforgiving line of fake sorry sayers. Where were they when community mattered to prevent this kind of tragedy? Uh, nowhere.

There was the whole “going through the D.a.’s evidence box” that landed on my doorstep after the man plead guilty to 1st deg murder to avoid the death penalty. He was a capitol offender. He had previously harmed my son, and escalated to intentional murder. He never aired a grievance to my knowledge. Never asked for help or said he needed a break. I never knew it was him watching my son.

I can count on my hands three people who where there when it mattered the most. And, one of them wasn’t really FOR me. the end. Welcome to my annual Jan.

Welcome to the bottomless pit,



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